Panes of Glass
by Aiming Right
Summary: Here's a secret. There are better things than freedom.
1. Panes of Glass

_We'd better take this world as we find it:_

_Through three panes of glass enough beauty_

_comes sifting down_

_to make a sane person happy,_

_or a sad one sane._

. . .

**~. End of Winter ~.  
><strong>Liz Rosenberg


	2. A tiny bit Insane

He's sane.

Or so he likes to think.

.

He's an ordinary man with an ordinary job.

He goes to work every day at exactly six-oh-five with no definite answers to his life and one paper sack of lunch.

He lives alone in a rundown apartment building next to a bunch of loud neighbors that have arguments on Friday nights.

He doesn't like to interact with people and rarely speaks up.

Sometimes he'll crack a smile when someone says a random thing, and people will look at him oddly as though he has no right to smile, and then he will frown.

He is submissive and does not talk out of turn.

There is no family waiting for him when he comes home, no wife to greet him at the door or children to hug him as he ambles his way into the room.

But that's okay.

Because he knows he is sane.

And he is happy being sane.

.

His routines are fixed and appropriate.

He makes barely minimum pay because his job is only eight hours a day, minus weekends, and it is not a very fulfilling one.

Occasionally, he likes to take walks through parks and look up at the star-filled sky, though the trees and buildings and light pollution usually make it impossible to see.

Still, he imagines them to be bright, through his thick glasses and bad eyes, as bright as a full moon glowing iridescent on a dark evening; as bright as neon colors stretching across an infinite universe.

He thinks on these days when he is walking along a dirt path.

And when he thinks, he feels a bit lonely and empty.

He wants to change something in his everyday routine.

He wants to change something in his uneventful life.

But he doesn't know what.

All he knows is that he is sane.

That he must _be _sane.

.

He wonders when the world will end.

Through the monotonous, repetitive actions of his thirty or forty something years of living, he has grown weary.

He fully embraces the thought of no tomorrow and the tell-tale prick of death approaching him from a street corner.

Sometimes when he is driving home from work, he sees a distant fog just trailing him from behind his car.

He remembers laughing when he sees this. Laughing and then crying.

He wants so badly to tear away from fake facades and emotionless masks.

He wishes so badly that, someday, someone will come into his life and take away all the misery.

.

He wants to be sane.

And there is nothing stopping him from it.

There is nothing stopping him but fear.

A fear that is cold. Murky dark. Unknown.

He fears what does not exist, and fears the things that exist just outside of his reach.

Fears the hold of society and regret clawing at his consciousness, clawing at his mind.

Fears the touch of warmth, the brief splash of happiness that causes a rare smile to flit across his face.

Fears the acts of kindness and the whispered words of concern and care that people have no right to grace him with.

He fears the strings attached to his heart, attaching him to this life.

It is red, he knows this for a fact, because the blood running in him is not a dead black, but a bright, vibrant, _living _red.

He knows this fear is what keeps him sane. . .

Sane.

And insane.

.

He's an ordinary man with an ordinary job.

He goes to work every day at exactly six-oh-five with no definite answers to his life and one paper sack of lunch.

He likes to sing to himself in the shower and dance around his lonely apartment on Wednesdays, with a small smile on his face and a bursting ache in his chest.

Occasionally, he takes walks through neighborhood parks and watches families loitering around, laughter in the air.

He thinks on these days when the sun has just fallen below the horizon and the moon rises up to fill her place.

He wants so badly to tear his skin apart, to throw it away on the ground and emerge as someone new. Someone different.

If he were someone different, he might be smiling each and every day of his life.

He might have a beautiful wife and lovely children to brighten up his empty apartment.

He might be able to speak up more, gain deeper confidence, laugh a little at the funny things in life.

He might have a successful job that brings him joy, happiness, and self-fulfillment. . .

.

But sometimes he can't help but stop and stare at the night sky. Dotted with stars of multiple colors that might not even exist in the human language.

When he does, he smiles.

A soft and hesitant smile, aimed at this array of light, and people will look at him oddly as though he has no right to smile.

And he doesn't care.

Because he knows he is sane.

A large portion sane, and just a tiny, tiny bit insane.

Because he is still living, as someone old. The same person he was a year ago, five years ago, twenty years ago.

Someone different. Yet still himself.

And for once, this thought may be okay.

.

For once, it really was okay.

* * *

><p><strong>~. A tiny bit Insane ~.<br>**

- 3/11/11


	3. To Be or Not to Be

_You have a choice. Live or die._

_Every breath is a choice._

_Every minute is a choice._

_To be or not to be._

. . .

**~. _Survivor _~.  
><strong>Chuck Palahniuk


	4. Not to Be

"I choose not to be."

She gives me a sideways glance, blonde hair cloaking her pale face. Her blue eyes are tired, broken and weary. "What?"

"Not to be," I repeat and smile. My hands are clasped in front of me, like I'm a psychiatrist patiently waiting on a distressed patient.

And it's sorta like that too. She's my "distressed patient", traumatized by her "horrible" life. Hoping that I'll bring salvation to her pathetic self with my nice and kind words, my nice and kind, lying words. Words that hold no substantial proof except to fully reflect back what a needy person she is.

"...Er. Okay?"

There's an awkward pause, like there always is. I wonder what I should say to her. The right words to make her feel better. Guilt is starting to get to me, even though I've done nothing wrong (yet), even before the mutinous thoughts entire my mind.

I stare at her. I wonder why in the world she hates herself so much. She's beautiful. That's what I think. Her hair is a nice blonde, flowing color, the color of vibrant sunlight. It glows (albeit unnaturally, but who cares? No one is natural in this world anymore) as much as her eyes do when she's intent on something. Eyes the color of calm, almost sapphire blue. The kind of eyes that could capture a guy's heart, if only those glasses were out of the way.

She's beautiful. Why can't she see that?

It makes me angry.

"So, what would _you _choose?" I finally speak up again.

"What do you mean?"

"Would you choose to be or not to be?"

She stares at me and laughs softly. "Be _what_?"

I simply reply, "Just, to be or not to be."

Now I can see the slight flicker of confusion and annoyance on her face. It makes me feel annoyed too. I mean, it's such an easy question to answer. Just answer the initial or the latter. Just answer to be or not to be. To exist or not to exist.

I try to make it easier on her. "Live or die?"

Die, she'll say.

"Die."

There's hesitation. More confusion. Because there's hesitation, I know she doesn't mean it.

Tch. Typical.

"Are you sure?"

"..." She stares at me. "Positive." A split second too late.

I smile more widely, and it's nice, seeing how deeply agitated she is now. How funny and ironic it is when someone comes to you for comfort and guidance, and they get everything thrown back in their face. How funny and satisfying it is when they only talk to you when they need you, never when you need them, and in the end, they're paying for it. And then they're all hurt and sad. Oh, cry me a river.

"Okay, then tell me why," I continue, my hands still clasped together. _What's wrong? What's up? Why are you upset? I'll be your friend for today, and then, once I've helped you, go ahead on your merry way to someone else and leave me behind. And when you're hurt again, I'll be here, of course. I'm always here. I'll always be waiting._

Because I know how it feels to need someone.

So she tells me. Rants to me. There may have actually been some tears in her eyes. It's her damn boyfriend, her damn mom, her damn teachers, her goddamn, fucking life. She's tired of it, her grades are slipping, all she wants to do is have _fun_, why won't God even allow that? She just wants someone that loves her, but she feels unsafe, insecure, unhappy. There's depression, there's that stupid medication that won't help. Her mom is just adding stress to her, degrading her, making her feel less significant; her siblings desperately depend on her and life is hard enough without having to take care of them as well. And school - ugh, school. Why does it have to exist? Teachers are just bullshitting all the time, the work is difficult and no one's willing to help, and she just doesn't understand the things she needs to. She gets bitched at, she thinks suicidal thoughts, she wishes she could die, she wishes she could live happily, she wonders if maybe jumping off a bridge will help her. She wants, wants, wants so much.

"So basically," I say after she's finished, blue eyes indignant at all the wrongs tainting her life, "you want to_ be_."

There is another silence.

Then her eyes widen in fury. "No! Why would I want to _be_? God! I fucking hate this life! Nothing's going right, and I just want to lay down and never wake up."

"Right... but you just said all those things. Are there any justifications for them, if you didn't want to _be_?" If you didn't want to live, if you didn't want to breathe, then why would you make up all those excuses?

"Those aren't fucking excuses!"

"They're what's bothering you, right?" If they weren't excuses, then what are they?

"The things I hate in life!"

"You don't hate them." You actually love them, don't you?

"..."

You actually love every single little thing in life, don't you? We all do. We just have to remember again if we've forgotten.

"Hey, show me your wrist."

She's aflame in anger now, fist clenched tight and glaring at me. However, she does as she's told, slowly and suspiciously.

I brought the knife to school just for this one day. It's not _that _sharp, but it's sharp enough to tear skin and pour blood. As I pull it from my backpack, trying to hide it as best as I can in the dim glow of the courtyard, I notice her eyes growing wide. The first emotion I see is fear. Hidden, deep fear. The fear of pain, the fear of the unknown. The fear of death.

"You said, 'Die' when I asked you 'Live or Die'," I murmur and flick the blade forward. "So, want to _die_?" My hands grasp onto her wrist tightly and before she can protest, I slash the blade across it. She yelps in shock and initial pain as a thick line of blood flows from the wound.

"WHAT THE FUCK?" she screams and leaps up to her feet. Tears instantly spring to her eyes and she alternates staring between me and the cut.

"You won't die from that," I warn her. "It's just a small cut."

"What the hell!" The words come out choked and confused. Her body is shaking, shock still evident on her face.

"You said you wanted to die," I answer coldly and stand up. The wind blows my black hair over my eyes. I notice that it's gotten long, I should really cut it soon. But it can wait.

Now she's staring at me like I'm a maniac. Tears are still streaming down her cheeks, red and puffed up. "...You're fucking crazy." _Did you think I really meant it?_ is what her expression screams at me, no words needed. _Of course I didn't want to die_, she continues; I don't even need her to open her mouth to tell me every single thought reflected back in the mirror of her soul.

Of course she didn't want to die. Because she chose to _be_.

"Alright," I sigh. "I'm really sorry... I had to see if you were serious about dying or not. I mean, you always talk about it. What would you do if it actually happens, hmm?" Will you embrace death as easily as you embraced your words _on _death?

I offer her my hand and watch her roughly push it away. "Bitch," she spits out, and my eyes grow big in surprise. I've never seen her so venomous towards me directly before (of course, she's done it plenty of times behind my back), and all I can do is smile. "Some friend you are!" she continues and then turns away, limping the opposite direction, towards the exit from the school that is probably fully empty by now (though why she's limping, I have no idea. I didn't injure her leg, did I?).

I watch the wind lift strands of her unnatural blonde hair into the air, beautiful golden locks that don't even need to be natural to be so lovely and vibrant. A sort of rising jealousy fills the pit of my stomach, and I whirl around quickly before I do something dangerous. Like throw the knife, javelin-style, straight at her heart. Like sprint up from behind her and wring her stupid neck. Like burst into an overdue rage and tear her limbs into pieces.

_Like kill her._

She's beautiful. I don't see why, even though her life may be rough at the moment, she would hate herself.

I want to tell her, Yeah, you know what? _Me too._

I want to tell her, Yeah, I'm not happy with my fucking life either. Do you see me smiling? You're fucking blind if you are. How can you not see how _fake _it is? How utterly painful it is to pretend each and every fucking day. I'm losing my sanity. I feel like I've lost everything in my life. People are slipping away everywhere I turn, no one's there for me. Boyfriend? What fucking boyfriend? At least you _have _someone to depend on. I have no one. My family and friends are drifting apart from me, I can't relate to anyone anymore; the world is slowly revolving and leaving me behind on its fucked up merry-go-round. My father only cares about what's on the outside and never listens to the me on the inside, I'm a disgrace, useless, people hate me, my family hates me, my friends hate me, even strangers hate me. I don't know what to do, what to think, I'm so messed up in the head, it's a wonder I'm able to wake up knowing my full name and who I am. Sure, my life isn't as terrible as some other people's. Hell, it's probably not as "terrible" as yours.

But you know what? It's terrible to _me_.

.

_To be or not to be._

__It's your choice. Really, it is.__

.

Still smiling, tears falling gently from my eyes, I run the knife along the scarred flesh of my wrist, jaggedly, harshly. A beautiful maroon color of blood spurts up from the violated area.

"I choose not to be," I whisper.

* * *

><p><strong>~. Not to Be ~.<strong>

- 3/15/11


	5. Nothing

Nothing belongs to me.

The songs, the words, the letters that escape from my fingertips. The raucous sounds coming from my mouth, the smiles that force their way on my face, the hugs received by open air and a body who answers uncaringly in return. My hands that clasp themselves together, rubbing frost from its very heart, the tears that grace my cheek, running down to lips slanted upward in an attempt to ward off loneliness. The empty, but beating piece of life inside of me that refuses to give up, or the endless onslaught of lies and truths that are jumbled together through the language I've no right to speak and the one I've no right not to speak. The words that flow so easily from the person who claims this and that, capturing me into an embrace that's impossible to relinquish, the arguments that echo endlessly, that have no significance behind their violent-colored exterior. The necessary disappointment and sorrow entitled to a confused, lost girl, and the heavy burdens that force their way into every single corner of her life. The pain and torment of a past long gone, memories engulfed with the waves of the ocean, leaving only vague glimpses of the beauty and happiness that happened once upon a time. The voice of someone calling out to me, with a smile and a love that was boundless and unquestionable, sincere and truthful, that allowed me comfort, peace, and the hope of tomorrow's future.

None of it belongs to me. It never has.

* * *

><p><strong>~. Nothing ~.<strong>

- 1/11/11


	6. Enjoy your Life

"Enjoy your beautiful life."

_He was never open about his emotions, so he wasn't about to start now._

_What he felt, his goals and his thought process, all belonged to him. He wasn't about to share it with anyone else._

"You're not happy, right? Do something to change that. Only you can change how you see the world, especially your own life."

_He couldn't help but to smile._

_"Should you really be saying that to someone like me?"_

_Finally, he responded, _"Thank you."

. . .

**~. The Happiest of Man ~.**  
><em>Durarara!<em> kinkmeme - Anonymous Author


	7. Withdrawal

**Withdrawal**

* * *

><p>On days like this, she learns the true meaning of withdrawal.<p>

Morning comes early and evenings end late.

When she opens her eyes to a Tuesday-lit window, the sound of the clock's steady tick-tick-tick reminds her of the precious time she has wasted lying in bed, not living but dying. The hum of its presence wanes with the sighs of resignation, the formal "Good morning"'s uttered with indifference, and the slow tap-tap of feigned impatience for another day's hope of deliverance. Her life is determined by the numbers fading away each second she blinks; the monotony of routine drowns every digit in a sea of muffled screams and indignation.

When she walks out the door, to the bus standing outside waiting for her like an old, reproachful uncle, there is nothing on her mind but the thought of her future. Like the people surrounding her, she worries not about this here, but this there; worries not about what will happen now but, instead, about what will happen next. She wonders what she has to do afterwards, where she has to go later, and how she will get there in the end; thinks with the memories inscribed upon her from birth and practiced conditioning, the shadow of some monster standing over her bed and whispering stories of lost lives and lost loves and lost chances—the words of _nevermore_.

The taste of its bitterness leaves her yearning for something, _anything_, to soothe the sting of Such a Blatant Reality; and a sad frown of confusion transmogrifies her face, outlining it with the fear and uncertainty of that innate emotion in her heart, leaving her body paralyzed from the shock of invisible iron castings shackling her to the surface of the mortal world. She is the same as all the others—this she knows—and the hidden desire for something new and different and beautiful to appear, to appear and erase all the fake emptiness in her life, in her _self_, is the same as all of those other poor, wanting souls...

But with one difference—she is aware of the hollowness of her desires.

She suffers not because of something predetermined, but because of something self-determined. She suffers not because of something innate, but because of something learned, something experienced and pried apart with intense scrutiny and thought, from her last sixteen and seventeen years of living.

As she makes her way towards the bus, the steady slap-slap of her flipflops echo in a silent, mocking taunt, reminding her of the precious time she has wasted taking in lungfuls of air each day, living instead of dying. Her rudimentary words of denial play like a melody to a tuneless, nonexistent song. The hue of sunlight streaming through the windows of bland houses and bland cars is one of faded, map-like texture. She tastes the polluted grease of the breeze and smells the stream of water flowing from sprinklers.

They all feel dead to her. As dead as her expression—and her self.

Morning comes too early some times, and evenings end too late other times.

And on days like this, she learns the true meaning of withdrawal—the loss of carefree ignorance, replaced by the world-weary recognition of her short, monotonous life.

* * *

><p><em>Fin.<em>

* * *

><p>an: Small drabblet about the hollowness we feel inside at some point in our lives. During those times, when we realize how empty some of our actions are, I feel like we lose a bit of something inside, that we suffer from a withdrawal of our mind, a withdrawal of our true self. (But, of course, that's only on certain days.)

11/8/11


End file.
